Imperfect Strangers copy edit

by Mary

  “Sounds like a fun time.”

  “We’ll be back late tomorrow. Will you check on Martha while we’re gone?”

  “Absolutely. You guys have a great trip.”

  It isn’t until I’m alone with nothing but empty hands and a heart full of regret that I realize I left my overnight bag with my toothbrush and everything back at Brent’s place.

  Fuck.

  I sit on the couch and stare at the blank TV. After ten minutes of moping, I’m angrier at myself than I am at him. He’s right. I should support him. I want to support him. But how can I when he’s literally risking his life? He’s being selfish. Or maybe I’m being selfish. I don’t know, and I have no one to talk to about it since I promised I wouldn’t tell anyone.

  Then I make more bad decisions by turning on my laptop and googling Brent’s condition.

  Hypertrophic cardiomyopathy.

  It takes me a couple tries to figure out the spelling, but then a whole slew of information comes up.

  After reading some articles and trying a search that includes both the condition and athlete’s heart, I’m about to have a heart attack myself. Now I’m really convinced he’s going to die at any second and probably has pulmonary disease, cancer, and diabetes to boot.

  Eventually, I shut the computer and try to sleep.

  I can’t.

  I shouldn’t have run out on Brent, but I panicked. I don’t think I can handle anything bad happening to him. But I’m already too close. And it’s not like I can escape him—we have the charity game in a couple days and I know I’ll see him then. I work for his dad, so I might even see him around the office.

  I’m an idiot. I can’t hide from him. I don’t want to hide from him.

  I’m still lying there, mentally berating myself when I hear it.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  Maybe it’s just neighbors stomping around upstairs. That happens, right? I mean, orgies happen upstairs.

  Thumpthumpthump.

  It’s not coming from above this time. It’s coming from the closet.

  The cabinet in the hallway I’ve been using as a dresser is made of thick oak. It’s hard to push, but it’s good obstructive material. I shift and push with my arms and legs until it’s blocking the door to the closet and the only sounds left are my own pants.

  I haven’t heard any noises since I started pushing the dresser. I stand in silence, catching my breath. Everything is quiet.

  Bang!

  The sound is right on the door, as if someone in the closet used their fist to pound on the wood.

  Fuck!

  I run out to the living room, and grab my phone.

  I push 9 and then stop.

  Wait.

  I can’t call the cops. They’ve already been here and think I’m a nut job. By the time they arrive, the closet will be empty and I’ll get the fruitcake looks again.

  Shit.

  What to do?

  I exit my apartment, locking the door behind me. Should I Uber it to work? I can’t spend the money.

  Maybe . . .

  I knock on Martha’s door. The TV is loud. A up-tempo music thumps through the door, along with the echo of rhythmic counting. Is she watching an exercise video?

  I’m about to run away—why is she watching TV on full blast?—when she opens the door in her nightgown and curlers.

  “So I know that Steven is gone . . . mind if I steal his bed for the night?”

  ~*~

  The ringing phone jolts me from sleep. I swear I just shut my eyes two minutes ago.

  Martha was up all night blasting 1980s aerobicize videos. When I asked her about it, she said she enjoys the music. Listening to the shouts of overly excited fitness gurus all night is better than thumps or bangs or potential murderers, I guess, so there’s that.

  I pull my cell from the table next to Steven’s bed and answer without checking the number.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s me. Don’t hang up.”

  Mom.

  Before I have a chance to say anything, she’s talking. Her words are clear, but her voice is unsteady all the same. It’s not the slurred words that mean she’s been hitting the bottle. It’s the shaky, anxious tones of detox. “I’m sorry. I know there’s nothing I can say that will make it better, but I promise I’m going to try. I haven’t drunk anything in two days.”

  “That’s good, Mom.” But can I trust it? She sounds sober now, but we’ve been here before and it never lasts long.

  “I’m looking into some places I can get help. My insurance doesn’t cover a lot, so I’ll have to finance part of it. And you don’t owe me anything and I know I don’t deserve it, but I need a cosigner. I’ll pay you back.”

  I take a breath and think. Now this, this is different. She’s never apologized or offered to pay me back for anything. And I’ve been covering a lot of her expenses over the years.

  Although I’m not sure if I can trust this sudden change, I can’t say no. What if this is the time she turns it all around?

  “Send me information on the program you want to join. I’ll think about it.”

  She’s crying. Quietly, but the hitch in her breath gives her away. “I’ve really messed up.”

  “You have. But you can make it better.”

  We talk for a few more minutes until I realize I’m late for work and I have to hang up.

  Most of the time, Mr. Crawford comes in late anyway, but I have to take three trains to get to Park Avenue and if I’m not there when he is, I’m fucked.

  There are alerts on my phone—more Google alerts about Mr. Crawford. I don’t have a chance to check them until I’m on the crowded train, hanging on to a pole with one hand, hair still wet but mostly put together.

  Once again the news isn’t really about Mr. Crawford, but Brent.

  And me.

  Oh fuck.

  Even with the Oakland hat on, someone recognized him. Should have expected that. I mean, he’s like 220 pounds of brawny man meat. You can’t cover that body up with a hat and sunglasses.

  The headline screams, Brent Crawford and the Other Woman! Below are pictures of us kissing on the Staten Island Ferry. Another one of Brent smiling down at me while I shove a hot dog in my face. Yet another one on the subway. I’m sitting in his lap and talking so my eyes are partially closed and my mouth is half open and Brent is laughing and looking amazing while I appear deranged.

  Lovely.

  There are highlights about his dinner with Angela Sinclair and their fathers from the other week, hence the alert. Then right after that, pictures of Angela Sinclair with large sunglasses, hiding from paparazzi.

  A woman scorned, it reads.

  “She’s a lesbian!” I yell at my phone.

  “Who cares!” another commuter yells from somewhere on the train.

  “Exactly!” I yell back.

  My heart hurts looking at all the pictures. Not only because I look terrible in every one. Not even because the comments below the articles are slamming me for being an old dinosaur skank, although that hurts a little, but they’re also a reminder of what I’m going to lose.

  Brent.

  With a groan I think about his reaction to all this. I’m sure his father and publicist are going to love these newsflashes.

  Three hours later and I’m ready to curl up into a ball and die.

  Work sucks.

  I’m exhausted.

  I call the super and he insists they covered the dumbwaiter. When I tell him there are still weird noises, he says he’ll look into it sometime today.

  On my first break, I slip into the bathroom and call Freya. She’s been blowing up my phone all morning.

  “You were supposed to move to New York and not be a skank. What happened?”

  I laugh because what else can I do? “I’m not being a skank. Brent and I haven’t done anything other than kiss.” And have a super-hot make-out session, which he then stopp
ed to tell me he’s freaking dying, but I can’t really mention that bit. “And he never dated Angela Sinclair. It’s all bullshit.”

  “But you’re together? Like, together. With Brent Crawford? Dude.”

  “I don’t think it’s like that. We had a fight.”

  “About what? The pictures? Angela Sinclair? Did she show up at your apartment with her perfectly groomed eyebrows and tell you to lay off her man with no expression whatsoever because the Botox has frozen her face?”

  “Not quite.” I can’t tell Freya that Angela bats for the other team. That would be royally messed up.

  “Tell me what’s going on!”

  “It’s . . . complicated. I’ll call you later and tell you everything.” Almost everything. “I’m at work now and I can’t really talk.”

  “You better call me tonight or I will fly out there and tell everyone we’re lesbian lovers and Brent is actually the other woman.”

  I laugh. Oh the irony. Freya always has a way of making me feel better.

  When I get back to my desk, Mr. Crawford is waiting, standing in the office door, glowering at me as I approach.

  And all my good feelings disappear in a puff of stress and anxiety.

  “Where were you?”

  “I was taking a break.”

  “I need you to confirm the meeting this afternoon.”

  “I confirmed it two days ago, Mr. Crawford, and again this morning.”

  “Do it again.”

  I take a deep breath and count to ten. “Of course, Mr. Crawford,” I say in the sickliest, sweetest voice I can muster.

  He’s onto me. He’s glaring as I walk by him and primly sit at my desk.

  “Was there anything else, sir?”

  “Brent’s coming for the meeting.” He points a finger at me. “Don’t flirt with him.”

  “I would never behave in an unprofessional manner in the workplace, sir.”

  “Maybe not but I hear you’re acting less than professional outside work. I have plans for Brent and they don’t involve a social climber. Trying to sleep with the boss’s son won’t get you anything but screwed. In more ways than one.”

  My mouth falls open.

  He has got to be kidding me.

  “I know you need this job,” he continues. “If you stay away from Brent, I’ll let you keep it. If you don’t . . . well, I have a lot of connections in this city, and when I’m done, you won’t be able to keep a roof over your alcoholic mother’s head.”

  The words are emotionless. His face is as hard and blank as granite.

  He’s done research on me. On my family? How does he know about Mom? What is he, the mob?

  My eyes are stinging.

  As Mr. Crawford slinks back into his office, I sink in my seat but keep my head high, gazing up at the ceiling and hoping gravity will prevent my next breakdown. I will not lose it. I will not give him the satisfaction.

  My mind is whirring with his threats. Even if I wanted to keep Brent, I can’t.

  I open the drawer where Marc left another note for me.

  When work feels overwhelming, remember that you’re going to die.

  The irony piles up around here like snow on Everest.

  A few seconds later, Mr. Crawford is back at my desk. I force myself to meet his eyes. I set my jaw, ready for more.

  “Don’t tell Brent about this conversation.” He waves an irritated hand at me and sets off again, this time in the direction of Marc’s office down the hall.

  I slump back, all my bravado flying straight out the window. I need a nap. Or a good cry. My eyes burn with exhaustion and exasperation.

  I should quit. Or sue. Or, at the very least, stop protecting Mr. Crawford from someone else suing.

  No. I’m not doing any of that. I need this job. I can’t afford a lawyer. And I have too much work ethic to be a crappy employee.

  I swallow back my emotions. I will not cry. I hate it when I get emotional; my face turns into a blotchy mess.

  Taking deep breaths, I focus on the positive: I am smart. I can do this. I have a nice butt and killer boobs, despite what those commenters were saying online.

  I’m not a home-wrecking skankalopagus.

  I didn’t get fired.

  Yet.

  These are all good things.

  I try to get back to work but I keep having to blink away tears and I can’t focus on the spreadsheets in front of me.

  Even the spreadsheets!

  Screw Mr. Crawford and all his bull-fuckery and fake tan and piles of money.

  Down the hall, the elevator dings and I catch a glimpse of Brent’s tall form emerging as the doors slide open. Dammit. I don’t want him to see me like this.

  Pretending my body is suddenly rubber, I slump and slither like a boneless snake down under the desk. From my vantage as a puddle on the floor, his athletic shoes approach.

  His head pops around my chair.

  Apparently, my not-so-quick thinking didn’t fool him.

  His brows lift and his mouth twitches.

  “I dropped my contact,” I say.

  The twitching lips turn into a full-out grin. Damn him and his dimples.

  “You don’t wear contacts.”

  “I know.” Sigh.

  He steps back and I very awkwardly propel myself out from my hiding spot. Brent lends a hand, pulling me up, his fingers strong and warm.

  His eyes search mine. “Hi.” He’s still holding my hand. “I brought your stuff.”

  He has my pink bag flung over his shoulder.

  Of course he brought my bag. He’s considerate. Unlike me, the girl who he spilled his heart to—literally—and ran away screaming.

  And now I’ll have to keep running to keep my job.

  The thought makes the tears well again.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too.” The tears make a final push and spill over. I try to blink the dampness away but it doesn’t help when they’re running down my cheeks, the traitorous drops of emotion.

  He pulls me into him, strong arms wrapping around my body and enveloping me in comforting warmth. This must be the safest and best-smelling place in the whole world.

  But what if Mr. Crawford comes back and sees?

  “Are you sniffing me?”

  “My nose is running. I’m just trying to not get my boogers all over you.”

  “I would believe that if you weren’t literally lifting my sleeve from my arm to smell it.”

  I step back, glancing around to make sure no one saw before meeting his eyes.

  He always looks a bit worn out and tired—and now I know the reason why—but today the grey smudges are even darker, the lines around his eyes deeper.

  “Are we okay?” His deep blue gaze searches mine.

  I nod. “Yes. I just don’t want you to . . .” One hand comes up in futility.

  “I know. I get it. I was so worried about you, watching the cameras all night. You left at one point and I thought maybe you were coming back to my place.”

  I shouldn’t tell him. But I can’t lie, not ever, but especially not when he’s gazing at me with penetrating, blue-eyed concern. “There were some sounds. I stayed with Martha.”

  His gaze lasers in on me. “You said yesterday the super covered the dumbwaiter entrance. There were still noises?”

  I nod once.

  “Will you come home tonight?”

  Home, he says. Like his apartment is ours. I bite my lip. “I already called the super this morning. They’re going to double-check it. I’ll be fine at my place.”

  “I’m still worried about you. Why is someone breaking in there to begin with?”

  I shrug. “No clue. But it’s got to stop now. There’s no other entrance. Besides, did you see the news?”

  “What news?”

  “There were photos of us together, online.”

  He grimaces. “I try not to look at press stuff. But
I did have a few missed calls from Roger this morning.”

  “It’s probably better if I stay away for a couple days so you aren’t in the limelight. They had some pictures of Angela all upset. I know she’s not, but it’s bad press.”

  His lips turn down. “I don’t care about bad press.”

  Your dad does, and I need to keep my job.

  But I keep those thoughts to myself.

  His eyes are dark and his brows are lowered. There’s a stagnant pause and it feels an awful lot like we’re breaking up.

  Were we ever really together to begin with?

  “I’ll still see you at the game Saturday?” he asks.

  “Yeah. Of course.” I force a smile but it stretches my face like a grimace.

  He opens his mouth and then shuts it again.

  “Brent.” Mr. Crawford is back. He won’t meet my eyes. “You ready to go?”

  I sit down, turning my chair so my back is to both of them.

  “Yeah.” Brent pauses. I sense his gaze on the back of my neck like a caress. I don’t turn around. “I’m ready.”

  They walk down the hall, Mr. Crawford jabbering about their client meeting and blah blah blah. I focus on my inbox and do my best to ignore the sound of Brent walking away.

  Chapter Seventeen

  If it is easy, then you are doing it wrong.

  –Gabby Williams

  Brent

  The charity baseball game is always a blast. I love working with the kids, seeing their eyes light up when they make a home run or hit a ball or steal a base. The crowd is always big—everyone wants to see the celebrities on the field—and it’s great to make money for a good cause.

  Outwardly, I help the kids and cheer and play. Inwardly, anxiety builds.

  I need to talk to Bethany.

  I miss her.

  The last two days have been like a hellish trip into the past—like the sun is blocked out and the world is drowning in gloom. Just like it was before Bethany. I move from one day to the next, going through the motions without really feeling anything.

  One of the kids hits the ball between second and third base, sending it bumping into the outfield, and the crowd goes wild. I run alongside him to first, yelling encouragement. We high five when he lands on the plate.